This time, dammit, she was going to vote no matter what.

She was waiting on the bench at the bus stop a half-hour early. The bus stopped just past the bench and Waterloo saw on the back a pasty, pink, grinning man with perfect teeth shouting in a cartoon bubble, VOTE! IT’S YOUR RIGHT! IT’S YOUR DUTY! As Waterloo made her way to the bus door she mumbled, “Sure thing, you old fart.”

DEMOCRACY BY JOHN ALLISON 34THPARALLEL MAGAZINE ISSUE 75

Waterloo was on hold. Had been for 12 minutes. Eight to go before break was over.

“County clerk’s office. May I help you?”

When someone finally spoke on the other end Waterloo had just swallowed a chunk of ham sandwich. She choked a hello.

“Yes, mam, I can’t figure out where I’m supposed to vote. I used to know, then they, you know, the assholes—oops, sorry, didn’t mean to say that—the, uh, the guys in charge decided they were playing poker and shuffled the precincts willy-nilly. I looked at the new map, and I’m right on a line.”

“Poker?”

“Never mind.”

“Address please?”

“2819 Laurel.”

“Is that in Pearce, Forrest Hills, Western Hills, Wheatley, Lakeview, or—”

“Wheatley.”

“Hold please.”

This was all just one city, and you’d think that sensible people would treat it that way. But no. There was a central city, Pearce, and a bunch of incorporated burbs almost the same size that sprang up not long after, when cars came along in the 20s and 30s. Some poor, some middling, some rich. Some mostly pavement that blistered shoeless feet in summertime, some mostly dirt, some with carefully trimmed trees and manicured grass way too thirsty for the droughty climate, automatic sprinklers sending cascades of clean drinking water down the gutters beside stately homes.

You knew, she thought, where the soccer moms were to be found—the ones who drove SUVs the size of Waterloo’s apartment and had swinging blonde ponytails, gleaming teeth, perky tits, and perfect bottoms that were in the same place as when their owners had been 16. Nothing wrong with being a soccer mom, or looking good, but still…

“Is that West Laurel or East Laurel?”

“Oh, East.”

“You know you can vote early at a couple of places not too far from there.”

“You can’t if you’ve got my boss. Only on election day.”

“I see. Hold please.”

Waterloo looked at the clock. Four minutes.

Then two.

No one on the other end, but Waterloo said, “Got to go.” And did. She would try again tomorrow.